Need therapy?

Cold. Dark. The human condition appalls me. Every thought, every emotion so intricately bound together. You try and pin one down, as you are the hunter and it is the prey. Catch it, kill it. It always slips from your hands, at the very last moment, a cruel joke. Every experience, that time you dropped a pen in class, that time your car broke down in the middle of traffic, that time your grandma died, that time you saw your mother cry for the first time. Big or small, it made you into who you are, things almost written in stone, make up a soul. There is nothing wrong with you. There is everything wrong with you. You're alive. Both bound by the weight of your soul and the weight of existence. A puppet without strings. There is no cure for the human condition. Don't you see? It doesn't end. It never ends.